


life in the midst of death

by liquidCitrus



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Houston Spies (Blaseball Team), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mute Math Velazquez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27535975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidCitrus/pseuds/liquidCitrus
Summary: Fitzgerald sat quietly at the far end of the bench. Nobody else went near them.Incinerated players are instantly replaced midgame. How does it feel to be a replacement?
Relationships: Fitzgerald Blackburn/Math Velazquez
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	life in the midst of death

**Author's Note:**

> [vibrates at a new fandom where dying is also everyone's favorite hobby and the game must still go on]

Ten minutes after it happened, Fitzgerald Blackburn filed into the dugout with the rest of the team and said nothing, the terrified shrieking of everyone in the stadium still ringing in their ears.

Back then, Fitzgerald didn't recognize any of them, in their identical trenchcoats and uniforms. Someone squeezed the shoulder of another player, who wiped their eyes as they stood up to walk to the plate. The game went on.

Fitzgerald sat quietly at the far end of the bench. Nobody else went near them.

Later, Fitzgerald stood in the corner of a room as the rest of the team sat cross-legged on the floor, sharing stories that had been de-classified upon the death of their teammate. One poured drinks. Another passed around a set of photographs they'd taken.

"I still can't believe it."

"It won't be the same without the song at halftime. Maybe we should get a CD player."

"Weren't we planning that heist for the signed Gibson guitar she'd said had been lost? Are we still doing that?"

"...you know. Maybe we should. You know, for her. Hang it up in the common room."

One of them, who'd been silent the entire time, looked at Fitzgerald; at the circle; back at Fitzgerald; got up and walked over to the shadow in the corner.

"Hi," Fitzgerald said. "I, uh. I guess I'm your... teammate... now?"

The individual nodded, and pointed to the embroidered name hidden beneath the uniform's collar. _Math Velazquez_.

Fitzgerald let Math lead them to a table, where Math opened a laptop, pulled up a document, and gestured for Fitzgerald to read it.

_Usually we have a rather more elaborate onboarding process, but the recent wave of incinerations has made this impossible. In lieu of what would usually have been a multiday interview and field test, this is the bare minimum of what you should know to become a Spy._

Fitzgerald suddenly thought, _What a way to say, "we're struggling to adapt to the fact that players are suddenly dying on the field and we're being forced to continue to play this game despite that by uncaring forces beyond our control"._

There was a summary of the rules of blaseball, which had been seared into Fitzgerald's mind at the moment of their appearance; they skimmed rapidly. There was a section about basic information security, titled "How To Avoid Answering Questions". There was a bit about the dress code.

There was a section on the players who had died, and what little they knew about rogue umpires, and how people were instantly pulled in to replace them.

 _I'm only here because someone is_ dead. _I have absolutely no right to replace them._ Fitzgerald closed their eyes and took a long, shaking breath. No crying. _No_ crying. They didn't even _know_ these people. And first impressions are critically important, right? Breaking down at a bunch of names of people they didn't even know...

Math tapped Fitzgerald on the hand and, when Fitzgerald looked up, pointed at the document, which Math had scrolled down on.

_Being sad and scared is a normal reaction to what's been going on. Just remember that we're all going through this together, and that we're all willing to help. Not just the Spies. Everyone in Blaseball._

Math offered some tissues.

By the time Fitzgerald felt collected enough to look up, most of the rest of the Spies had filed out of the room.

Math scrolled down the page a bit further. There was an odd question at the bottom of the document.

_What's your favorite mathematical construct?_

"Pascal's triangle," Fitzgerald said, after a few moments of contemplation. "Simple addition somehow ends up holding within itself binomial coefficients, triangle numbers, _and_ combinatorics? Wow."

Something sparkled in Math's... face? Math pulled out a calculator and began to type rapidly, then turned it around to show to Fitzgerald. [I think we'll get along.]


End file.
